These Catch Up With Perfection Slowly Poem by james watkin
These Catch Up With Perfection Slowly
These catch up with perfection slowly;
As with thumb and forefinger
Down a rosary that chastened crawls.
Counts his beads in drops of rain
Who prays his tillage over.
Out of Tranquility's Court, twined
With a fulness round regales
No impatience the instruction thus:
"No sweet fruitage was ripened, born;
No soul, but comes through its gales".
Monday, November 18, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: religious
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2/22/2026 6:46:02 PM # 1.0.0
